


A Purpose Under Heaven

by Imbrium (Mare_Vaporum)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: M/M, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, mention of childhood abuse in future chapters, mention of drug abuse in future chapters, rogue warrior of light - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:01:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23844889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mare_Vaporum/pseuds/Imbrium
Summary: Rowan Elilsyn, a miqo'te abandoned as a child on the docks of Limsa Lominsa, had the distinction of being chosen as the Warrior of Light, but before the Mother Crystal had lain her hand upon him, he began his story as a lowly thief and common criminal.  Rising up from the degradation of extreme poverty, he still carries soul-deep scars with him from a childhood spent scrawny and desperate on the docks.He was still a fairly new addition to the Scions when he agreed to aid the Sons of St. Coinach's in ridding the Crystal Tower of dangerous monsters, a typical task for a professional adventurer. Mutants, chimeras and homonculi; these were of no consequence to the Warrior of Light, but what Rowan wasn't prepared for was the romantic attentions of a grandiose scholar by the name of G'raha Tia, who wrapped him effortlessly around his little finger.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Kudos: 3





	A Purpose Under Heaven

A meaty, brown fist pressed hard against a haphazard stack of research tomes and file folios covering a portable desk. The Director of St Coinach's addressed two young miqo'te that looked like they had gone a few rounds with an Imperial Vanguard, covered toes to teeth in superficial wounds. He peered over the top of his spectacles with a long-suffering glare. "Do you boys not recall what I said to you _both!"_ Extending a pointer finger at each of his captives, "...not a fortnight ago." The redhead piped up immediately, rankled at the idea that this debacle was somehow his fault. (It was.) He prepared to narrate a well-practiced shpiel with what he hoped sounded like authority. He _was_ a bard after all.

"I understand, Rammbroes," he began smoothly, "but it wasn't our _fault!_ We-" The fist slammed into the desk with such force the books liberally stacked here and there became airborne for a moment. Both miqo'te jumped in their chairs, ears snapped back and eyes wide. 

"That is _not_..." He shouted the word before he regained his composure. His constant worry for the historian in front of him didn't do a damn bit of good if the miqo'te refused to adhere to his rules. Rammbroes Zasertylsyn took a deep, cleansing breath, brushing his smock back to take a seat before beginning again. The large man took great pains to not come off as intimidating and shouty, what with all the meek antiquities graduates he had scurrying about this place. But these two were a force to be reckoned with. The Warrior of Light was an indispensable worker and personnel guard on the Syrcus expedition, but that boy only inflamed his star researcher's insatiable craving for adventure. He folded his hands peaceably in front of him, voice mellowed to a conversational level. "That is not what I asked, Master G'raha."

"Of _course_ we remember, where would we be without your guidance, Rammbroes." G'raha Tia started sweetly, his tone conciliatory. "But you see, the third level convection sensors spiked into dangerous levels and while we knew that you had specifically and very _wisely_ told us never to enter the antechamber without a full guard, in my opinion that it was imperative to get a point blank reading from inside the defense outlet. It was the middle of the night, so we just... popped in?" He put on the Big Eyes as a last resort. They had gotten him off the hook on more than one occasion, mostly with the female Ironworks technicians when they brought back something complex and dangerous he wanted to dig his curious little fingers into without the all-clear. Rammbroes threw his hands up, gazing toward the heavens as if praying for strength from his gods. Rowan Elilsyn bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a grin from sneaking out. He knew these two men had had this exact argument more than once. G'raha made an impatient sound, dumping the honey-sweetness. His words tumbled out in a rush, knowing he was getting exactly nowhere with the Director. He'd seen it all before, of course.

"Come _on_ , Rammbroes! You know how thick the EMF is that sector!" His tail lashed with agitation, the luxurious auburn fur brushing against Rowan's ankle. "And we had to go inside, you have my _deepest_ condolences. You know it is impossible to get a viable scan from outside the door!" He gestured wildly, stabbing his notebook with a forefinger. "Do you see how bloody high this is?! I thought the meter was broken for a moment."

Rammbroes ignored G'raha's hard-won findings to turn in his office chair, digging through a listing bookshelf behind him. After a moment of fumbling through scientific journals and accidentally dislodging a few tomes with esoteric titles such as "Bioprocess Engineering Principles", "Aetheric Manipulation: Inexact Science and Sacred Art", the Director carefully levered a tattered logbook from the rickety shelf. He paged through it meditatively, spectacles sliding down his nose and looking for a specific entry. G'raha rattled off some technological gibberish rapid fire that went straight over Rowan's decidedly unscientific head. He let the details blur into the background and spent the opportunity to gaze uninterrupted at his partner in crime, tilting his head to examine his Archon rank tattooed upon the side of his throat. The deep wine purple hue reminded him of how the color of his auburn hair deepened in the shadows of their shared tent. Inked skin and ruby strands seemed to meld together when he let his hair free of his braid. He would comb his fingers meditatively through it before laying down to sleep, catching the eyes of the rogue in the cot next to him. Rowan idly wondered if it tickled his neck when it did. He shifted restlessly in his seat, throwing a boot up to rest upon the opposite knee.

"...And the systems could have been activating on account of the weather and some other unknown factor. For verification's sake." The miqo'te jabbed a thumb out the open flap of the command tent to the oily, kaleidoscopic weather pattern the Sons referred to simply as, Gloom. The pollution from the Agrius wreckage lingered around this place still, years after the crash. At certain barometric pressures the sea breeze off Silvertear concentrated escaped aether in a scintillating, hot pink cloud that caused the Ironworks team no end of irritation. The pyrgeometers went on the fritz during bouts of the psychedelic display, not to mention partially dismantled Allagan defense modules were known to turn themselves on and off, attempting to return to their repair sockets. Which of course, scared the daylights out of the research team when the deactivated mechs shuddered to life again, causing the guard to rush in and apply concussive maintenance. It gave the term 'Ghost in the Machine' a whole new meaning. 

"And I... I felt something, Rammbroes." G'raha's voice grew quiet. "Got another bad headache behind my eye and I figured we should check to see if there was aught amiss. These headaches are becoming scarily accurate forewarning energy spikes. The camp could have been in danger. Forgive me for caring about the well-being of my compatriots." G'raha flopped dramatically back in his seat, oozing down the backrest like a murdered flan.

"You should be more concerned about your own well-being, my friend." Rammbroes located the specific entry he was in search of and turning the book around, the Roegadyn pushed it close so the seated miqo'te could read it. "Do you see this number?" Rowan leaned forward, reading the number his callused finger was pointing at, G'raha remaining limp as a dishrag in his chair. "Aye?" Affirmed the Scion, attempting to humor the man, since G'raha wasn't moving an ilm.

"This sum is how much the University has set aside for the guard detail to keep us safe from harm, for hazard pay and unforeseen contingencies." Rowan gave a low, appreciative whistle. That was a lot of zeros. The Director nodded soberly, his finger sliding down the page to another line. "This is the quarterly sum of insurance payments remitted by the Sons of St. Coinach to Dodoregi & Pogasi of Ul'dah to ensure our surviving families shall not be left bereft of support upon the event of our untimely deaths." Rammbroes flipped the book closed again, his point emphatically made. As he turned to file it back in his mess of a bookshelf, several more anthropogeography tomes and periodicals clattered to the floor of the command tent. "Which is why we staff such an exemplary security force, you included, Master Elilsyn." G'raha's head was still pillowed upon the backrest of his chair, gazing mournfully at Rowan from the tops of his eyes. As Rammbroes began to speak, the miqo'te lip-synced his words perfectly in time.

"The best of the best in all the city-states!" The Seeker clenched a fist, shaking it grandly at the roof of the tent. It seemed this speech was oft repeated to the impetuous historian, to the point where he could recite it word for word. Rowan's green eyes watered with stifled laughter, gnawing harshly at his bottom lip to keep it stowed. 

"The finest warriors, their abilities honed to perfection!" A pointer finger extended to prod at the rogue's muscled bicep, the motion sending a spray of goosebumps up his spine. "We are blessed to have the support that we are so graciously given," G'raha placed a hand over his heart, gazing soulfully at his friend. "Because our charge is of the _utmost importance."_ Rammbroes finally succeeded in shoving everything back into the bookcase, pausing for a moment to see if anything else felt like escaping. He glared at the overloaded shelving, silently daring it to try him. As the Director turned back around again, G'raha dropped the act in an instant, face going carefully blank.

"Listen to me, boys. There are things in that Tower that could mutate every lifeform in this entire region. We have barely scratched the surface of its purpose."

"Which is _why_ we must take every chance to probe the defense systems! Carefully and systemically, of course, with adequate oversight." G'raha cut in, still draped over his chair like an overdose victim. "How shall we learn to counteract them if we don't know how they're deployed?" The Direction leveled a stern glare at the redhead.

"You made it twenty-two fulms inside the antechamber before a drone was firing on you. You were _extraordinarily fortunate_ that it was a Needlemech and not a Railgun or a Phantom Ray. We'd still be scraping your charred remains off the walls had it been so. We have trained professionals on hand round the clock for situations like this. You have linkshell access to the commander. All I ask, G'raha, is that you utilize what resources we have provided you for your own protection. They're here for a reason, let them do their jobs." The historian blew his fringe off his face irritably.

"Why are we even still talking about this? Got a clean reading, we made it out fine. The moment it deployed we were breaking for the door. Just a few little scrapes never hurt anybody... Neurotoxin notwithstanding." 

_You dirty bullshitter,_ Rowan thought with silent bemusement. What had actually happened was somewhat different than the fictional story G'raha was spinning for the Director. Rowan had nabbed the man by the collar and his beltloops and shoved him bodily in the direction of the antechamber door the moment the mech hovered into the line of sight. Hustling the protesting Seeker out the door with a firm grip on his doublet, the mech rained a shower of needles down upon them like an an apoplectic porcupine. He could have dispatched it with ease but his first order priority was to keep his charge safe and whole and he couldn't do that alone, not without a healer on hand. Rowan was still angry at himself on account of the wounds G'raha had sustained in the interior of the Tower. Small and insignificant as they were, it frustrated him that he wasn't able to keep him absolutely unharmed. The petite historian had the conviction of a madman and conveniently also had a pocket bodyguard that just so happened to be woefully wrapped around his little finger. Rowan schooled his expression to remain neutral, but they would be having a chat about taking ridiculous risks in the future. G'raha certainly wasn't going to own up to the fact that they had snuck inside during the night several times without incident but this was an Allagan ruin, it was only a matter of time before something truly deadly crossed their paths.

But the madman was not to be deterred. Mismatched eyes rolled in their sockets, doing his best to appear unconcerned with his cuts and scrapes. "I'm ambitious, Rammbroes, not _stupid_. The pursuit of knowledge often requires some risks-" The Director made a curt motion with a hand, silencing G'raha's song and dance.

"Sst! You _swore_ to me you would cease picking about in there without a full team. You _swore._ Next I know the two of you are in my, ahem, _office_ , bleeding all over my carpet like you bearhugged a family of cactuars." G'raha shrugged stiffly, giving him a thin-lipped smile.

"My apologies? Would you like me to purchase you a new one." He was out of arguments. "Potted plant to tie the room together?" The Director refused to rise to his needling and instead gave a weary, put-upon sigh.

"Until the weather changes, I'm confining you to your quarters for the duration," Rammbroes deadpanned. "We cannot risk your safety because you have trouble with impulse control on account of that _infernal curiosity."_ At this unexpected turn of events, G'raha launched his notebook skyward with a filthy miqo'te curse but was thwarted by the peaked ceiling of the tent. The book ricocheted off a support bar and cartwheeled out the open flap, landing in a pile of ruffled pages.

"You know," He grit out, as he shoved himself out of his chair, "I was brought here by the University's invitation as the preeminent scholar in this field and with all due respect, Rammbroes, I am not under your command. _Sir_." Rowan blinked up his friend, noting the tension stringing throughout his body. _He makes claw-fingers when he's angry._ The rogue made a mental note to spring for a few pints of that high gravity mead they brewed up at the Seventh Heaven for him. And a few for himself, of course. Perhaps arrange for some more interesting chemical entertainment.

"And you are not the Director of this survey, Master G'raha, despite your vital contribution of your craft to the Syrcus expedition. I shall revoke your access codes to the perimeter gate if you cannot see reason."

"You _wouldn't."_ His odd eyes narrowed dangerously. If you want to avoid getting on a scholar's bad side, one thing you do not do was restrict his access to the research site.

"I would and it shall remain that way until I can trust you to alert the guard if anything of import should happen forthwith. This conversation, is over. And take that with you when you go." The Director pointed with his fountain pen to an overflowing crate of micro tomestones. G'raha's ears flattened flush to his skull. "It'll give you something to keep you busy with until the weather breaks."

 _"Media files?_ That's freshman work." He stuck his nose up, crossing his arms testily. "I'm about eight years and three degrees beyond rote translation, Rammbroes."

"Always good to keep the gears greased! Practice makes perfect." He waved the furious Seeker off and dug inside a desk drawer for a moment before producing a massive grocery bag. "Now shoo. You're interrupting my brunch." G'raha gave a wordless shriek of frustration as he snatched up the crate and flounced out the door, tail stiff as a dowel rod. Rowan watched him go, blonde eyebrows hitched up to his hairline. He hadn't seen him this riled since the first day he arrived at St. Coinach's.

 _"G'raha got in trouble!_ " A female Roegadyn sing-songed as he trudged by, her muffled taunting filtering in through the canvas walls of the command tent. Rowan's ears swiveled in the direction of her voice, listening in.

"Stick a sock in it, Broenswys, or I'll march right back in there and tell him _allll_ about your unholy preference for-" A dull thunk of metal on leather verified the fact that she had lobbed a chisel at him in passing, which G'raha blocked with a bracer. Thank the Twelve for miqo'te reflexes, because Broenswys was a crack shot and that lady had an arm on her. 

"Here, he wanted you to translate these."

"That's _freshman_ work!" 

"I knooow!" G'raha agreed with feigned empathy, and then raised his voice to shout back at the command tent, "...isn't it just an _AFFRONT TO SCHOLARSHIP?"_ Rowan couldn't help but snigger childishly at his friend's outburst, though Rammbroes pushed his spectacles up to rest atop his head.

"That boy will be the death of me yet." He muttered, massaging the bridge of his nose with a resigned sigh. Rowan swallowed his laughter as best he could, as he could tell the man was exhausted dealing with the whims of the Sharlayan observer and resident genius.

"He means well, Director, try not to be too angry with him." The rogue attempted to smooth over the interaction he just witnessed. "He's just... distracted because he feels like he's right on the edge of discovering something of monumental import, aside from the obvious, of course. 'Tis driving him a bit insane at the moment, I think."

"I'm aware of that, Master Elilsyn, I read his weekly reports. But he is the fulcrum upon which this entire expedition rests, which makes him a crucial cog in the function of our research. It is understandably an immense amount of pressure to be under, though we would not have made any of these groundbreaking discoveries at all if it wasn't for his expertise." Rowan furrowed, ears sideways at the idea that the only reason G'raha's safety mattered was because he was just really, _really_ spectacular at Allagan dialects and identifying items of cultural significance.

"So he's a tool, is he?" He ventured, voice stiff with protective instinct.

"Aye, that he is. A very effective tool. And no." Rammbroes removed his spectacles and folded them, leveling Rowan with a candid gaze. "I love that boy like the son I never had. And despite his expansive knowledge of Allagan achievements great and small, he remains mortal. All it would take is one slip-up, one moment of distraction, Llymlaen preserve him," The Roegadyn made a gesture for warding off evil, "and he'd be lost to us. But I feel I can speak confidently for all of us on the N.O.A.H team, that G'raha Tia is not beloved for his scholarly knowledge alone, but for the quality of his character. I just want him safe." Rowan nodded in relieved agreement, his suspicions appeased.

"Which is why I'm here." He threw a fist into his palm, a determined expression upon his face. "I can't stop him from taking dangerous risks, but I'll stick to him like glue wherever he goes, I can promise you that." The Director nodded approvingly.

"I'll see what I can do about adding you to the command linkshell. If he refuses to alert the guard when you head into the interior, please send out a call so we can be prepared if something goes wrong."

"Of course." The miqo'te rose to shake the Director's hand, "I shall do my best, sir," and turned to leave.

"Rowan..." Rammbroes called, after a moment of silent deliberation, causing him to stick his head back inside the command tent.

"You share a tent with G'raha, correct?"

"I do. We switched because I'm a light sleeper and my old roomie snored like a damned behemoth giving birth. Luckily G'raha sleeps like a corpse."

"A fortunate turn of events. And the two of you have... grown close since you've been assigned to St. Coinach's, have you not?" Rowan nodded, while silently amending the statement. _Not close enough._

"I ask this because I know how G'raha deals with frustration. He stews in it. And when he starts stewing he gets antsy and temperamental. What I ask of you, and this is a request, not an order, is to listen to him. He's going to want to rant and rave and possibly challenge boundaries. I would entreat you to use your best judgement and keep him out of harm's way tonight."

"I'd do that without asking, sir." _Well I'd try..._

"Good, good. Thank you for your efforts, Master Elilsyn. You are as ever, dependable to a fault. You had a late night, feel free to entertain yourself however you wish until the weather changes, I'm pulling all teams back until I see sunshine again. And stop by the healing tent if you wish to be rid of those cuts and bruises." Rowan gave him a jaunty salute as he turned to leave, scooping G'raha's rumpled notebook off the ground.

He flipped idly through the ragged book as he meandered through the camp to make sure it was more or less in one piece. The pages were covered with equations converting aetheric pressure to electrical charge and various esoteric terms in what Rowan recognized as the runic language of ancient Allag, not that he could read any of it. He had assumed G'raha was solely trained in language and antiquities but from the contents of this book, he was picking up disciplines from the Ironworks team at a furious rate. Strings of poetry in code plotted in three dimensions, floor layout diagrams and different models of artillery decorated every ilm of the notebook.

Well, almost every ilm.

The last section of the book held what looked like scribbled drafts of song lyrics, corrected and re-corrected, with musical notations and chord progressions jotted in the margins. G'raha was known to pick absently on a beat-up old lyre that had seen better days while laying in his cot thinking before bedtime. It was the only instrument he took with him on the expedition because of its compact size and stowability, but Rowan had discovered he played several more, with varying degrees of proficiency. He wanted to hear him play them all one day.

Out of the messy disorder in the preceding pages, G'raha had copied out the final passages in his beautiful, ornate script. Rowan ran a finger down the lines of text, as if he could puzzle out the meaning by touch. The rogue wasn't the most practiced reader, having learned later in life than most people do. He still had trouble with cursive letters jumbling together until they all looked the damn same to him. But the precise rhythm of G'raha's hand made the text look less like scrambled letters on a page and more like art. It took a moment, but Rowan's eyes widened as he slowly gleaned the meaning, ears pricking upward. What he read there was something profound.

_"My body is a dead language_   
_silenced and taught again to speak_   
_yet you pronounce every word_   
_perfectly, perfectly"_

He whispered the words to himself, wondering with a stab of jealousy, which lucky egghead on the expedition had inspired such longing in the historian for him to write such things. Never mind that G'raha himself was the reigning king of the eggheads on this survey, but G'raha... was G'raha. And there was no one else like him on this star. Rowan pulled a face, snapping the book shut and forcefully shoving the thought out of his head as he arrived at their shared tent. The flaps were tied closed, which he assumed was a request for privacy, which was somewhat unusual considering that the Seeker stripped to his smallclothes in front of him every night.

G'raha was certainly wasn't excessively shy when it came to partial nudity, not that Rowan could blame him. In this stagnant, hot weather they'd been having lately, he'd shuck off his doublet and trousers the moment he returned from his research. He'd toss them vaguely in the direction of the chair in the corner, before flopping tiredly into his cot. It was difficult keeping one's eyes in a neutral position when all Rowan could see was malms of bare skin the creamy shade of a natural redhead, right there before him. His lithe, archer's build was a joy to behold, and not only because it was a genetic characteristic of their people. He was richly adorned with arcane tattoos normally hidden by his armor; they made Rowan yearn to examine them up close, feeling the tiny scars left from the needle under the skin. Perhaps he could contrive a reason to compare his own tattoos with the historian, and maybe he'd get the chance.

Both miqo'te slept in their shorts, with the nights so sticky and humid in Mor Dhona during this time of year. Sleep was hard to grasp at the best of times for the rogue, he had struggled with insomnia and night terrors on and off his whole life. He would jerk awake in the night to lay abed and spend the hours watching G'raha's chest rise and fall in the moonlight, wishing he could curl up beside to feel him breathe softly in his slumber.

Rowan set the notebook down in front of the closed flap, held in place with a rosy chunk of doubly terminated quartz he picked up while patrolling the long entrance passage to the Tower. As much crystal as that kit examined every day, G'raha never got sick of finding pretty stones and crystals of unusual colors. His trousers would hit the ground with a thud when he undressed before bed on account of the pocketful of rocks he'd inevitably come back with. He was going to have to rent a chocobo carriage to haul the collection back from the survey site when he left.

Since Rowan had time to kill, he decided to teleport to the aetheryte in Revenant's Toll to do some light shopping and pick up some gifts to help his friend feel a bit better. Walking a few yalms away from camp, so as to not disrupt the meters the Ironworks team were running while dismantling a defense mech, he focused his aether. Reaching out with an astral wave to the closest aetheryte in the grid, Rowan lifted gracefully off the ground in a haze of purple sparks and winked out of sight with a static sizzle of energy.

**Author's Note:**

> Elilsyn means "Exiled Son" in the Roegadyn language, Rowan was so named by the acting guildmaster of the Dutiful Sisters when he came into their guardianship. He has no familial or emotional connection to the tribe of his birth, and does not consider himself to be a miqo'te at all. His given name is more or less a nickname meaning "little redhead" in old Hyuran, a moniker given when the blonde child achieved his first blood.


End file.
